


If I Lived Till I Was 102

by thehobbem



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: I Made Myself Cry, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Music, M/M, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9070624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehobbem/pseuds/thehobbem
Summary: Yuuri had that sparkle in his eyes again, The Dowsing Rod Look, as Victor liked to call it. He was once again searching for an answer. Victor knew the only thing left to do was observe and not interrupt, and in no time was rewarded for his patience: he got to see Yuuri’s lips slowly curl up in a tiny, excited smile. In which we take a look at how Victor adjusts to his new life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is way way post-ep.12, so a lot of it is my own headcanons and wishes for these two!

_Victor threw his overcoat and scarf negligently on the back of the sofa._

_“Yuuri, tell me later what you’d like to do with the apartment.”_

_Yuuri stopped, windbreaker off one shoulder and a puzzled look._

_“… do with the apartment?”_

_“Yeah, I mean, decoration-wise”, the other replied a tad absent-mindedly, opening the fridge and eyeing its contents with an unhappy look. He only turned to look at his fiancé when he heard the all too common sound of Yuuri stuttering._

_“W-what? No no no, everything fine, it… the… the apartment great!”_

_Victor tried not to laugh: Yuuri’s English always faltered when he was nervous; he wondered whether the same happened in Japanese, Victor was not fluent enough to be able to tell._

_“Yeah, it looks great… but it’s rather empty, wouldn’t you say?”_

_Yuuri stopped stammering and considered, his eyes running over the room pensively. His next question showed he’d understood:_

_“You… you didn’t decorate it yourself, did you?”_

_Victor smiled a little and shook his head. Everything had been done by a famous decorator, he’d simply paid for it and had never thought twice about the apartment. It was just a place for him to go back to when he wasn’t competing – he had to sleep_ somewhere _, after all. But what a difference a year away had made. Maybe it was because he himself had changed, or maybe it was the weird way Yuuri glanced at the place when he thought Victor wasn’t looking: the thousand lights above their bed, the empty walls, the chair/coat rack, the unused kitchen, the_ whiteness _of it all. The absolute lack of Victor. No wonder the warm Yuuri felt so uncomfortable in such a cold place._

_“So if you have any id – ” he paused. Yuuri had that sparkle in his eyes again, The Dowsing Rod Look, as Victor liked to call it. He was once again searching for an answer. Victor knew the only thing left to do was observe and not interrupt, and in no time was rewarded for his patience: he got to see Yuuri’s lips slowly curl up in a tiny, excited smile._

_“Victor! What if we…!” he halted, rather abruptly. “V-Victor… I don’t… I mean… are you sure? You must like it this way.”_

_“I don’t. Do whatever you want.” Victor smiled brightly at him._

_“Are you_ sure _? This is your home, after all.”_

“You _are my home, Yuuri.”_

 

And that was still true, even after all these years. It didn’t matter whether they were in St. Petersburg or Hasetsu, anywhere was home as long as Yuuri was there.

He opened the windows and smiled: the cherry blossom trees were in full bloom again, the wind scattering sakura petals everywhere. His and Yuuri’s favorite kind of day. Victor got everything he needed, including the chair, and started on his way, their dog on his heels. He’d be hard pressed to tell just how many thousand times he’d walked by the Hasetsu ocean, but it never got old: the sound of the waves, the screams of the seagulls, the spot where Yuuri had first opened up to him. Forty years had passed since then, but the mere sight of that place still filled his heart to the brim.

It was a short walk, he got there in 15 minutes. Too short, perhaps. Victor got down to business with the melancholy efficiency brought by experience. Once he was done came the “regular update”, so he got the list from his pocket; it was quite long, as usual, but necessarily so, he didn’t want to forget anything. Oh yes, Alyosha was right there at the top of the list – when wasn’t he?

He took a deep breath and opened his mouth, but he had to stop when his lips trembled. No. Not there, not in front of him. Never in front of him.

Breathe in, breathe out, calmly, carefully. There. Well, maybe the list wasn’t a good idea right now, he’d do it later. Tomorrow, with Yurio.

He was glad Yurio was coming, but a pity Alyosha couldn’t make it this year. It was worth it, though: the Grand Prix was just around the corner, and if he won this year it’d be his sixth consecutive GP win. He’d finally beat the Katsuki-Nikiforovs’ and Yurio’s record, and they were more than eager to see that. Who better than little Alyosha? Victor smiled a little: the ice skating world was head over heels in love with the handsome Alexei Plisetsky, but to Victor and Yuuri he’d always been “little Alyosha”, just as his father would always be “Yurio”.

They were pretty confident in that win, too; the free skate program Yurio had choreographed for his son was stunning as usual, and Alyosha had choreographed his own short program – also a striking routine, but what really got Victor every time was the music piece he’d chosen. Seeing someone skate a program to a seductive tango automatically made Victor think of Eros.

Funny how he’d never really told Yuuri about his inspiration for Eros. Even after being told what he’d been up to at that banquet, even after learning he had _tangoed with Victor_ and then basically disappeared, he had still failed to connect the dots. But that was Katsuki Yuuri for you. He’d never truly grasped that _he_ was the playboy in Victor’s story – that he was the one who did the seducing and then the leaving.

And the grave in front of Victor now was the ultimate proof of that. Yuuri had seduced him once again, this time for life, and then left him behind.

They’d seen many others leave them as well. The first one had been Mr. Plisetsky, only 1 year after Yurio had won his first Grand Prix, leaving a devastated boy in their hands. The silent, nondescript Mr. Katsuki had left them a couple of years after Yakov, and Mrs. Katsuki hadn’t been too long in following her husband. At least Nishigori and Minako had seen Yuuri’s 5 consecutive GP wins, his 3 Worlds and five Four Continents before they, too, had left them behind.

What had never, ever, crossed Victor’s mind was the possibility that Yuuri might go first. Well, he _had_ always hated to come in second, after all. It was just that Yuuri had been younger, more robust, had never known a sick day in his life (the sickest he’d ever seen him before was a cold that had lasted for a mere couple of days). Victor had always been positive he wouldn’t have to live without him. But Katsuki Yuuri had never ceased to surprise him, till the very end.

And now it was three years since his playboy had left town.

Well. At least the grave was spotless, all according to Japanese tradition. And he’d picked the most beautiful flowers. That plus the sakura petals filling the air was sure to make Yuuri smile.

He always cleaned the grave by himself; everyone knew the anniversary, but it was common knowledge that Victor wanted it to be just the two of them on that day. Everyone else always visited the next day. And despite living in a whole different continent altogether, Yurio never failed to be there.

Because Yurio and little Alyosha hadn’t been able to attend the funeral; Mari, Yuuko, the triplets, Phichit, Minami, Chris, Mila, Otabek and most of their pupils had been there, but not Yurio, and Victor had never felt so alone. He knew that was how it had to be: Alyosha was injured and Yurio needed to be there with him, not here. Yuuri would’ve wanted that as well. Even so, the fact remained that Victor had needed Yurio by his side, but the only person to whom Victor’s needs had been a number one priority was gone.

Two weeks after the funeral, though, when Victor still went to the grave every day first thing in the morning, he found someone else had beat him to it. And if he hadn’t been sick and tired of knowing that back, and its owner’s unmistakable, vaguely aggressive hands-in-pockets stance, the leopard-print scarf would’ve been a dead giveaway.

_Look Victor, don’t you think Yurio’s gonna love this scarf?!_

Victor had thought of giving Yurio some time to say goodbye, but when had Yuri Plisetsky ever let anyone go about their business the way they wanted? He’d always been all about messing up people’s plans, and that time had been no different: he’d stood in front of the grave for some long minutes in absolute silence, and then finally given it the lightest of kicks and muttered in his usual sullen voice:

“Oi, Katsudon, it’s me. …Yurio.”

Victor hadn’t cried even once. Not even when he’d woken up in the morning and Yuuri hadn’t. Not during the funeral. Not one day during his morning visits. That would’ve made Yuuri sad and he’d promised himself, all those years before in that car park in China, that he’d never make Yuuri cry again.

But hearing Yuri Plisetsky call himself Yurio had finally broken him.

Yurio had immediately turned towards the sound of the sobbing mess and gone to his side. To that day Victor didn’t know how long he’d spent crying on Yurio’s shoulder, but knew it was more than he was proud of. Yurio had eventually managed to lead him away from the grave and out of the cemetery – but not before he’d turned to Yuuri’s grave and growled “I’m not done with you, Katsudon!”. After that, Yurio never failed to show up for the anniversary. He made a point of it.

And now, alone in front of the grave, Victor looked at his watch: Yurio was on the plane right now, he’d pick him up at the airport later. And tomorrow Victor would read the list of everything that had happened that year and Yuuri had missed, and Yurio would be able to give fresh news of Alyosha, the apple of both Yuris’ eyes.

Victor and Yuuri had decided quite clearly, decades ago, not to have a kid of their own. Having a kid would take their time away from skating and from each other, and neither wanted that. Besides, it was not like there had ever been a shortage of kids in their lives: Axel and Lu Nishigori had gone to St. Petersburg to train under them when they were 12 (while Loop had wanted to stay in Hasetsu). Axel had won a couple of Junior GPs and Worlds, but then Lu had gotten a GP and a Four Continents under her belt. “Which are _real_ competitions, you know, not a _junior_ one” she’d added, to his and Yuuri’s infinite amusement. The famous Nishigori Twins had taken the ice skating world by storm, but they hadn’t been their only kids: the Katsuki-Nikiforov Skating House in St. Petersburg had always been riddled with children and teenagers (not to mention Yurio and Mila, who trained under them after Yakov’s death and who, despite their age, were more troublesome than children at times).

And Yuuri… kids and dogs had always been drawn to him. Victor hadn’t done badly with children, far from it – it was just that Yuuri had been the one they trusted not to let go of their hands when they were afraid to fall. Alyosha had been one of them.

With those two, it had been the same scene every day: the minute the boy stepped into the school he would run around looking for “Yuuri-sensei”, who, in his turn, would stop everything he was doing to talk and play and skate with the little Plisetsky; they’d been inseparable, much to Yurio’s annoyance.

_Get your own kid, piggy!_

And the day Alyosha had gotten his first gold in the Worlds, Yuuri could barely sit still.

 _Did you see that, Viten’ka? He won gold! With_ my _choreography!_

“Viten’ka”. There was no other sound Victor had loved more than the way Yuuri used to say “Viten’ka”. He still didn’t know how he could make a name _sound_ warm, but he’d done it every single time. And that V that Yuuri had never been able to fully get and ended up half-way between a V and a B, just remembering that made Victor’s heart skip a few beats.

But without Katsuki-Nikiforov Yuuri, there was no Viten’ka. Just… Victor.

Like the apartment.

_Tell me later what you’d like to do with the apartment._

And Yuuri had done it. The kitchen started being used _daily_ , which meant there was always something to be washed in the sink. He’d gotten rid of the chair/coat rack he’d never admitted slightly terrified him, and done away with 2/3 of the light bulbs in that house (“If I don’t need all these lights to see, then neither do you”). There was always the occasional sock on a sofa or chair, because Yuuri _could_ be kind of sloppy. And the most important, Yuuri had filled the place with pictures. Pictures of them in Spain, in Japan, in St. Petersburg, in China – he’d even gotten one of their first kiss. He’d contacted Chris and Georgi, had scoured the internet, and there it was: Victor with Yurio, everyone from the training rink, an 18-year-old Victor with Yakov; people from Hasetsu, Victor with the Katsukis, Maccachin, Chris, Yurio and Otabek, Yuuri and Phichit in Detroit, their own duet at the Grand Prix. And as their life moved on, more and more pictures had been added: Yuuri’s gold medals, their wedding, the honeymoon, the triplets, Alyosha, their pupils, Mila, Georgi’s second and third weddings.

That apartment full of pictures of their life together, where Yuuri’s face haunted him, where Yuuri’s laughter still rang in his ears, _that_ apartment was Viten’ka.

Now, though.

_It’s rather empty, wouldn’t you say?_

And to think Yuuri hadn’t really known just how empty he’d be after he left. Then again, Victor’s deliberate theatricals had seen to that, there would’ve been no point in worrying Yuuri in his last months.

           

_Victor opened his arms dramatically._

_“I’ll just have to join a convent!”_

_Yuuri lifted his eyebrows. "_ _In… Hasetsu? Good luck with that.”_

_Victor sighed, loudly and even more dramatically. “In Austria, then!”_

_Yuuri snorted. “A convent in Austria? What are you, a Von Trapp?”_

_“I can sing Do-Re-Mi as well as anyone, I should think.”_

_“I’m sure your singing abilities will be more than welcome there, I just don’t think they sing Do-Re-Mi a lot.”_

_“You’re probably right.”  Victor flung himself on the couch next to his husband, and Yuuri put away his book. “So what, then, any suggestions?”_

_Yuuri pretended to think for a while. “Well, you can finally have as many light bulbs and lamps as you like around the house! And throw away all my ugly ties, too, I’m sure_ that _will be a comfort.”_

_Victor laughed, being as natural as he could. Yuuri had always been able to tell when he was fake smiling or fake laughing. But the thought that he actually believed throwing away some ties would comfort Victor was maddening._

_As if he’d have the courage to throw away anything that belonged to Yuuri._

 

He had, of course, eventually given away most of Yuuri’s clothes, and many of their own costumes were already at the World Figure Skating Museum & Hall of Fame anyway, including the Eros one. But Victor still had the Yuri on Ice costume, his Japan jacket and his pyjamas. And he’d kept all of his ties out of spite.

Victor had long settled in his own lonely routine by now: he woke up, took their dog for a walk, talked to all their friends and neighbors on his way, spent some time by the ocean and came back. He had his coffee and read the newspaper (always with a kanji dictionary at hand, now that there was no Yuuri to help him), and it wasn’t bad. The only catch was that after he was done with his coffee, he felt like talking – but without Yuuri, there was less to say.

So no, he wasn’t exactly unhappy; what was closer to the truth was that even if he lived till he was 102, he just didn’t think he’d ever get over Katsuki Yuuri.

The dog barked, waking him from his reverie. Victor called him and the poodle came. After Maccachin had died they’d had other dogs – not poodles, though, Victor hadn’t wanted a copy of Maccachin. But after Yuuri had been diagnosed, he’d gone out on his own and bought a brown toy poodle.

 _You see, when… every time I felt like giving up, Vicchan was there for me, and… even though we… you and I… didn’t know each other yet, it made me feel like Victor Nikiforov wasn’t so far away, like my dreams weren’t_ that _impossible. I didn’t have the real Victor, but I had Vicchan. So…_

So now that he didn’t have the real Yuuri, he could at least have Yuuchan, huh? Good thinking. Yuuchan _was_ a comfort. Thinking now of how Yuuri had left Vicchan to go to Detroit made him realize that Yuuri had always had this bad habit of leaving Victors behind.

Yuuri had said “stay by my side” to Victor, skated Stay By My Side with Victor, but failed to keep his own side of the bargain.

With a sigh, he got his phone out of his pocket: no messages. Yurio would still be on the plane then. He didn’t want to go home yet: it was a beautiful day and he wanted to keep Yuuri company a bit longer, so he went through his playlist till he found what he was looking for and hit play. The beautiful, lonely, hesitant piano notes he had come to know and love so well began. Decades had gone by and his opinion on the piece had never changed: nothing would ever be so true to Katsuki Yuuri as this. The back and forth between the reluctant and the confident, the tentative and the assertive; it was just as beautiful and touching as he had been. Victor closed his eyes. As always, he thought the piano and the violin meshed really well. The percussion in the back, adding urgency and momentum, was also important. The three of them had made beautiful music together.

By the time he reached his favorite part, though, when the violin and percussion rejoined the piano and the melody soared, his mind was far away, full of flashbacks of tangos and laughter and onsens and pork cutlets and seagulls and ice rinks, swollen feet and jet lags and car parks, _I did great, right?_ , kisses, smiles, medals, plushies, score boards, airports and cathedrals, dogs and slow dances in their living room and big warm brown eyes that loved him.

The next song began playing and he automatically sang along, he knew it by heart, but he wasn’t really paying attention anymore. He wiped away the tears that had insisted on piling up and stood up. Time to go.

“Come, Yuuchan!”

With their last dog on his heels, Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov made his way back home, distractedly singing along as the final words of the song filled his heart.

_Partiamo insieme / Ora sono pronto_

**Author's Note:**

> The fic was inspired by [Colin Hay's song "I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5J-DtKldpE), to the point that I just had to use some of its lyrics.
> 
> I also described Victor's apartment according to [its real-life inspiration.](http://www.designfather.com/scandinavian-apartment-industrial-elements-architect-denis-krasikov/)
> 
> And I kinda wish I hadn't written this, because now I'm a mess.


End file.
